


Elm Street Loverboy

by Costellos



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, I wrote this for New Years 2018 but its June now lmao, Incorrect Usage of the Uber App, New Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 06:34:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14929052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Costellos/pseuds/Costellos
Summary: Pidge needs an Uber. Shiro is most certainly not an Uber.





	Elm Street Loverboy

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a quick 1k New Years drabble but we all know how that goes ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> EDIT: I had to add in literally two paragraphs at the end I left out with pidge/lance/hunk by mistake cause I'm a Big Dumb.

Pidge hiccups as she stumbles down the sidewalk, clawing for purchase along the weather-worn brick to her left to keep herself steady. “The bathroom’s right around the corner,” Keith had told her, but it’s already been at least twelve different corners and Pidge is starting to call bullshit.

_Dammit, Lance and his stupid drinking games._

She burps and cringes at the second-chance taste of green apple Vodka, nachos, and stomach bile, which stay to linger in the back of her throat.

She’s never drinking again.

. . . . .

Allura’s penthouse had been packed wall-to-wall with new and semi-familiar faces, some of which Pidge had recognized in passing through the halls of ALTEA CORP on the rare occasion that she actually left the lab. Others were complete and total strangers, many of them current and ex-military. They all laughed and danced to the _2017’s Greatest Hits_ playlist that thumped throughout the luxury apartment as if they’d known each other forever. Pidge, still too sober for her to not be hyper aware of the fact that she hardly knew any of them, had kept to herself in the kitchen for most of the evening where she grimaced at the microwave clock with each passing minute.

“There you are!” Lance shouted, as if he hadn’t ditched her to talk to some girl ten minutes earlier. He made his way through the small group of people clustered around the doorway, two dangerously-full shot glasses in hand. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

Pidge lifted and dropped her arms. “Here I am.”

“You can’t just be wandering off without telling me, Pidge. This place is huge,” Lance prattled on, oblivious to Pidge’s lack of interest. The slight pink tint to Lance’s dark cheeks might’ve gone unnoticed to the untrained eye, but to Pidge who worked closely with the test pilot on a regular basis and whom she had even roomed with during college, it was blatantly obvious that he’d had a bit more to drink in his short absence. “Speaking of huge, where’s Hunk at? Is he still on the roof with Shay? Oh man, have you _seen_ the roof, Pidge? The view is nuts! Come on, you gotta see it.”

“Lance—” Pidge tried to bat him away as he grabbed for her wrist, balancing the two shots between his fingers in one hand; they sloshed and spilled over as he attempted to drag her across the floor. “Lance, knock it off! You’re making a mess!”

“Then stop being so difficult and let’s go!”

“I don’t want to go!”

“What are you talking about? Of course you do!”

_“Lance!”_

“Fine, whatever!” Lance let go with an indignant roll of his eyes. Pidge ripped her hand back toward her chest as if she’d been burned. “If you wanna just hide in the kitchen alone all night like you already do in the lab at work, then be my guest.”

“I’m not _hiding.”_

“What the heck are you even doing in here of all places, anyway?” he asked, glancing around the room with a judging eye. The counters were littered with half-empty liquor bottles and party-sized chip bags. “There’s an open couch in the living room and there’s real food in the—whoa, hey, no.” His gaze had flit over the microwave across from where Pidge stood for only a fraction of a second, but he was quick to put two and two together. “Don’t even think about it.”

Pidge groaned. She was only supposed to come for a little while—an hour, at most—if not because she was a good employee who hated making Allura practically beg, then because she kind of wanted to witness Lance strikeout even more miserably so than usual with the addition of alcohol—which she’d seen plenty of times in the last fifteen minutes. Now she was ready to bail. “But it’s already 10:57.”

“Yeah, and this is a New Year’s party!” Lance reminded her. “You can’t just leave! And before midnight—are you insane? Even nursing homes push their bedtime to at least one on New Year’s!”

“I need to be up early tomorrow.”

“Old people are seriously partying it up harder than you, Pidge!”

“Well I’m willing to bet that those _‘old people’_ aren’t currently in the midst of an incredible scientific breakthrough in missile technology that would put even Wernher von Braun to shame, or else they’d probably be sleeping, too.”

“Dunno who that is, don’t care.” Lance held up a hand. “Besides, it doesn’t even matter, Pidge. You’re just wasting your time. _Tomorrow is New Year’s._ Altea Corp’s gonna be, like, hell closed.”

“The company might be closed, but my research is not.” Pidge hiccupped and scowled down at her own still-full green Solo cup; Allura had topped her off so many times tonight, her cup never even made it to being half-empty. She’d sipped at it slowly over the last hour to ensure she’d keep her intoxication from the mystery punch to a minimum. “I’ve made it my resolution to lower the—”

Lance blew a raspberry. “Booooorriinnnggggg.”

“Remind me to make sure they pack you a faulty parachute on your next test flight.”

“Why, if you weren’t so tiny and adorable, Pidge, I’d be hurt.” He thrust the two now almost-empty shots toward her. “Now drink up! Doctor’s orders.”

Pidge glared at him. “You’re not a doctor. _I’m_ a doctor. You’re just a crash test dummy.”

“Okay, now that did hurt.”

“Then stop bothering me and leave me alone,” she said, gingerly pushing the offered shots back to him. “I told you already, I need to be up early tomorrow. I don’t want to get drunk.”

“You don’t have to get drunk. Just have fun.”

“I am having fun.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He offered her the drinks once again. “C’mon. At least take one!”

“I said—”

Chicken.”

Pidge froze. “What’d you call me?”

“You heard me.”

“Take it back!”

The smirk that had split Lance’s face could only be described as sinister. “Make me.”

. . . . .

“If you can wait about twenty minutes I can probably get you a ride home.”

Pidge had glanced up from her spot on the couch where she’d been sitting with her head in hand for the past ten minutes, glaring at her phone as she tried to get ahold of her brother, but the six calls and two mangled texts she’d sent had been in vain.

“From who?” She scrunched her nose as she examined the blurry, looming figure above her. Keith, Allura’s longtime boyfriend and an Air Force fighter pilot whom Pidge had worked with on occasion didn’t seem to be a lick intoxicated, but Pidge knew better, having thrown back a celebratory shot, or two, or three, with him and Allura not too long ago. “You’re not driving.”

“Not me, my friend. He’s on his way now.”

Her phone read 12:29 AM. “Isn’t he a bit late?”

“He wanted to wait until the fireworks were done.”

Pidge didn’t question it. “Thanks, but I don’t know how I feel about getting a ride from a stranger. I think I’d rather just call an Uber.”

Keith snorted. “Because they _wouldn’t_ be a stranger.”

“It’s different because it’s their job—I can pay them to leave me alone and not talk to me. I’m not making your friend waste their time and gas dropping me off. Plus, I can’t read their reviews on Google.”

“Pretty sure you can’t read Uber reviews on Google, either,” he said, inadvertently reminding Pidge that she needed to actually download the app. “Shiro’s cool, though. You’d like him.”

Pidge imagined the awkward, forced conversation she’d have to endure, along with the obligation of sitting in the front seat. “Eh…”

“Or, you know, you can always just take the spare bedroom. Allura wouldn’t mind.”

That option was potentially worse because then she’d have to help clean in the morning. “Ehhh…”

Keith shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He knocked back the rest of the contents of his cup. Pidge did the same, deciding that it’d be her last drink for the night. Lance was nowhere to be found, having fulfilled his questionable friend and coworker duties of goading a good six shots into her before disappearing into the sea of people once more, and Pidge had never needed to pee so badly in her life.

Pidge stood up a little too fast, immediately regretting it when the settling alcohol rushed back and hit her all at once. The floor felt like it was rolling beneath her feet.

“Where’s the bathroom?”

. . . . .

Had she called for an Uber? How do you even use Uber? She’s never used Uber before, but she’d downloaded what she’s pretty sure is the app and it’s… well, it’s doing _something._ What, she doesn’t know.

Pidge stops to squint at her phone in the middle of a crosswalk as she sifts through what she presumes are the available drivers. She swipes left, right, up, down—any and every possible direction as she tries to select one. How the hell is she supposed to use this thing?

She gets a chat notification seconds after swiping right for what has to be the fortieth time that night. Pidge doesn’t particularly care for looks—not when it comes to getting a ride home, anyway—but she can’t help but think this guy’s driver profile picture is a bit over the top.

**Lotor**  
12:49 AM  Hello there, gorgeous.

**Pidge**  
12:50 AM  Un iion and Elm  
12:51 AM  DO YOOU TKE DICK?  
12:51 AM  Disc*  
12:51 AM  Discovv er?

Apparently there are six other unread chats, much to Pidge’s annoyed surprise, all with varying degrees of “What’s up?” and “You’re cute.”

“Uber sucks,” Pidge grumbles and prepares to uninstall the app.

**Jason**  
12:55 AM  Hey! You’re really close :)

There’s a dark grey pickup stopped up ahead at the intersection of State and Elm. That must be Jason—her Uber. Pidge, who’s starving, drunk, and has to piss _again,_ hastily decides that her theory checks out and books it for the truck. She clambers up the running board and into the unlocked backseat with a huff and a mumbled, “Why is your car so _tall?”_

Pidge is completely ignorant to the bewildered stare focused on her disheveled existence from the driver’s seat and the confused litany of “Ma’am?” as she tries and fails to buckle her seatbelt. They’re met only with slurred instructions: “3408 West Park Street,” before the comforting warmth of the cabin and the soft leather seats have an already-exhausted Pidge fighting to even keep her eyes open.

She barely pulls her Discover card out of her wallet before she’s out like a light.

. . . . .

Shiro is no stranger to finding himself in weird situations, but this has to take the cake.

“I’m sorry ma’am, but I think there might’ve been a mistake. I’m not—” A loud, choppy snore cuts him off. “Ma’am?”

Shiro twists and angles himself in his seat to get a better look at her. She’s slumped over against the door, messy brown hair loose from its ponytail and mouth wide open as she drools all over the armrest. She has one hand wedged between her thighs and the other tangled haphazardly in her unbuckled seat belt.

“Look, I’m sorry, but…” Shiro sighs. He flops back down into his seat. The Air Force might’ve prepared him for a lot of things, but never anything like this. What are you supposed to do when someone mistakes you for a taxi and passes out in your backseat? Pull over and leave them at a bus stop? The temperature on his dash reads twenty-two degrees Fahrenheit; he can’t put her back outside in the cold, not when she’s clearly this inebriated.

“That address,” Shiro mumbles as he hurriedly pats down his pockets for his phone. 3408 West Park Street—that has to be her address, right? If so, he could probably just drop her off if it’s not too far…

...and if Google Maps didn’t spit out a Taco Bell as the result.

Shiro squints at the sleeping woman in his backseat through his rearview mirror. There’s no way he’s leaving her at a Taco Bell.

The glint of something on the seat next to her catches his eye. He pulls of the street—something he should’ve done long ago—into an unmetered parking space outside of a nearby credit union before stretching into the back and grabbing the girl’s cell phone. It’s locked, of course, which defeats his brilliant plan to call one of her most frequented contacts for help. Her background of the Carina nebula and notifications for two recently missed calls and an unread text from “Matt” are all he’s allowed to see, and unfortunately, they don’t tell him much.

He could always check her ID. She’s not carrying a purse though, which means he’d have to pat her down for a wallet, and honestly? He’s not sure if that’s a good idea. The last thing he needs is her waking up and finding him in a compromising position with his hand in her back pocket; he’s not trying to lose his other arm. So Shiro does the only other thing he can possibly think of and snaps a picture of her. He sends it to his best friend Keith with, “What do I do?”

“That’s Pidge,” is Keith’s paltry answer five grudgingly-long minutes later, which only raises more questions. Shiro waits for Keith’s next incoming message, watching the _typing…_ notification with anticipation, when the girl’s—Pidge’s—phone starts to ring. It’s Matt. Shiro scrambles to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Who are you and what are you doing with my sister’s phone?”

Shiro glances back at Pidge. “I can explain.”

. . . . .

The address that Matt gives him is a good ten miles out of his way from where he’s supposed to be, but Shiro delivers Pidge to her and her brother’s shared apartment and, as promised, explains the whole situation to Matt while the two of them stand outside his truck on the sidewalk. Matt, like his sister, is also intoxicated, although considerably less so, and is much more amiable than their initial accusatory phone call had led Shiro to believe. Matt holds the door open while Shiro carries his sister inside.

“Where should I…” Shiro falters. He’s wearing a coat, so it’s not like Matt could’ve noticed, but his prosthetic isn’t on as tight as it should be and Pidge is a very active sleeper.

“Oh, you can just dump Pi—er, Katie on the couch.”

“Katie?” Shiro decides that he likes that name. He looks over at the large sunken-in loveseat, then back down at the drooling girl in his arms. “I’m not trying to intrude or anything, but I don’t mind taking her to her room if she has one. She’d probably be more comfortable in her bed than on the couch.”

Matt snorts. “You sure about that? It’s more of a hoarder’s nest than a bedroom.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Follow me.”

Shiro does as he’s told, hefting Katie down the narrow hallway and into what he presumes is her bedroom… or office. Storage room? The place is a downright mess, with empty water bottles and books and electronics scattered all over the floor that makes getting over to her bed without twisting his ankle some sort of psychotic obstacle course. The air is pungent with burnt plastic and unwashed laundry. If Shiro didn’t know any better, he’d of thought the room belonged to a teenage boy.

On his way out, he notices a small pile of business cards on Katie’s desk, amongst dozens of scattered sticky notes and tangled-up wires. He takes one without thinking. Matt, who he’d forgotten was standing behind him in the doorway, clears his throat, and for the second time that night Shiro feels like a criminal as he hastily explains that perhaps she could fix his computer as repayment. Katie turns over and snores, defusing the awkward situation and making them both laugh. When Matt gets a call that drags him to somewhere else in the apartment, Shiro takes the chance to pull the blanket up over her.

“It was nice meeting you, Katie,” he whispers before ducking out of her room.

. . . . .

Pidge wakes up the next morning with a splitting headache that has her hard pressed to care about how she’d miraculously ended up in her bed last night, let alone her missile research that she was supposed to wake up early to work on. Nor does she pay any mind to the heaps of notifications from some unfamiliar app that she has no recollection of ever downloading when she checks the time. Matt is not as merciful as her blackout curtains.

“Rise and shine!” he shouts as he bursts in through her door. Pidge hisses and shields herself from the bright hallway light that follows him. She ducks back under the covers when he flips the light switch. Matt tsks. “C’mon, it’s almost three in the afternoon!”

Pidge groans in response.

“So you’re just gonna sleep the day away?”

“I’d like to sleep this _headache_ away.”

Matt chuckles. “Here, I brought you these.”

Pidge pokes her head out from underneath the blanket to find an offering of Tylenol and a perspiring bottle of water. She swallows the pills and downs half the water bottle in one go, until her painfully-full bladder reminds her that it’s still there. She kicks the blanket off and dashes for the bathroom. Matt, still laughing, follows her into the hall.

“Huh. I thought Tylenol usually took about 30 minutes to start working, not 30 seconds.”

“You’re not funny!”

“Pfft. Hey, seriously though, when you’re done in there don’t forget to say thank you!”

Pidge furrows her brows. “Uh… thank you?”

“What? No, not to me. To Shiro!”

“Who?”

“The guy who dropped you off last night? Keith’s friend? Whatever that means.”

Pidge tears the bathroom door open; washing her hands can wait. “What?”

Matt whistles. “Man, Shiro wasn’t kidding when he said you were out of it.” He crosses his arms and bends down to examine his sister. Pidge can literally feel her already-threadbare patience threatening to snap. “You seriously don’t remember anything from last night?”

“What is there to remember!?”

Matt, being the upstanding sibling that he is, spares Pidge a worsened headache and gives her his secondhand rundown of last night events, about how she had apparently mistaken Shiro’s car for a taxi and then promptly proceeded to fall asleep in his backseat without a care. Pidge is absolutely mortified. She’s not sure which is worse: the fact that she’d climbed into the backseat of a stranger’s car in the shadier part of downtown like some two-dollar hooker, or Matt’s enthusiastic inclusion of moot details such as how loud she’d been snoring and how she’d drooled a reservoir into the storage slot of the car door armrest.

“The best part is that you told him to take you to 3408 West Park Street before you knocked out.”

“West Park Street?”

“It’s a Taco Bell.”

“Oh.” That’s not all that hard to believe. Drunken Pidge had been ravenous, after all. “So then how did I get home?”

“I called you, he picked up. The rest is history.” Matt shrugs, though his nonchalance over the entire situation seems to run out at right about this point as he suddenly shifts into Concerned Older Brother mode. “What were you even doing, wandering around downtown alone like that so late at night? And on New Year’s? You’re lucky it was Shiro who found you and not some creep!”

“I can handle myself,” Pidge argues and pushes past her brother to head back to her room. Matt scoffs and follows. He leans against her doorway and watches as she plops down on the edge of her bed and reaches for the water bottle.

“Still, he gave you a ride home when he didn’t have to. The least you can do is give him a call and tell him thanks for bringing you home safe.”

“I don’t even know who we’re talking about, yet I’m supposed to just somehow have this guy’s number?”

Matt’s eyes blow wide. “Shit, I forgot to get his number!”

“Then I guess that’s settled.”

“Well he took one of your business cards so he should have yours at least, so I guess just wait until he contacts you? He said he might have you repay him by fixing his computer or something.”

Pidge gawks. “You gave one of my cards to a complete stranger? Those are for networking!”

“Uh, yeah? That’s kinda how networking works, Pidge. Besides, apparently you guys share a friend or two so it’s not like he’s a _complete_ stranger,” Matt says. Pidge rolls her eyes and takes another gulp of water. “And we talked a little afterwards, too. He’s ex-Air Force, used to be stationed at Dad’s old base. Lost one of his arms while deployed in Iraq. Kinda wish I’d known that ahead of time or else I wouldn’t have made him carry you.”

Pidge chokes.

“Anyway,” Matt continues as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell on Pidge that has her seriously contemplating incapacitating him with the nearest object, “I’m gonna head out for a bit to run some errands, so I’ll see you later. But oh, hey—you should check your phone! He might’ve already tried calling.”

Pidge’s momentary thirst for blood is curtailed as her phone suddenly vibrates from somewhere beneath the blanket, spurring an uneasy feeling in her gut. The second Matt is out of sight she dives for it, tearing her bed apart in the process. There aren’t any missed calls or texts, _thank god,_ but there’s an ungodly number of chat notifications from—

“When the hell did I download Tindr!?”

The uneasy feeling is replaced with one of disgust as Pidge scrolls through the 29 unread conversations with a scowl. She deletes her account, uninstalls the app, and vows to never drink and download again.

. . . . .

With every day that passes with no contact from this mysterious “Shiro,” Pidge finds herself growing more and more agitated; it’s like her phone is a ticking time bomb, and all she wants is to get this over with. She’d thought about changing her number at first, until she’d realized that’d mean also having to change her business cards, and those had _not_ been cheap. So during a moment of downtime at work toward the end of the week, Pidge decides to take matters into her own hands and looks him up on Facebook. She regrets it almost immediately.

The only possible profile belongs to a Takashi “Shiro” Shirogane, 33 years old and living in the next town over. She’s 99.9% certain that this is the right person based on Matt’s limited description alone, but she wishes dearly that it’s not: he’s attractive, insanely so, and Pidge’s cheeks burn just knowing that he’d carried her in his arms—and that she’d drooled all over his car.

Against her better judgement, Pidge swipes through a few of his featured photos. Her initial annoyed eagerness to simply thank him and move on turns increasingly to nervous apprehension with each additional picture of him that she looks at, until the sight of his scarred nose and gentle eyes has her consciously wondering if he’s single.

She closes Facebook and gets back to work.

. . . . .

Two nights later while ordering takeout, Pidge receives a call from an unfamiliar number. She lets it go to voicemail. She gets a text five minutes after.

**2064234414**  
7:02 PM  Hi, is this Katie?  
7:04 PM  It’s Shiro  
7:12 PM  The guy who’s car you got into the other night LOL

Pidge panics and blocks his number.

. . . . .

“He what!?”

Keith flits around on his phone for a few seconds before holding it out for Pidge to see: a week-old conversation between him and Shiro, with a picture of a sleeping, rumpled Pidge nestled in between replies. Pidge thought that Keith had been joking when he said that Shiro had sent her photo to him in a panicked attempt to identify her, but apparently that’s not the case.

“What—why would he—!” She doesn’t know whether she should be angry or embarrassed. “That’s an invasion of privacy!”

“It’s really not that big of a deal. He was just trying to figure out who you were,” Keith explains, going to put his phone away. Pidge shoots forward and grabs ahold of his wrist. _Ugh._ That has to be the most unflattering picture of herself that she’s ever seen.

Keith lifts a brow. “Uh, did you want me to send it to you?”

“No!”

Pidge shoves Keith’s hand away and goes back to tinkering harshly with the motherboard of his aircraft’s control panel in heated silence. She can feel Keith’s perplexed gaze on the back of her neck, can feel the irritated confusion rolling off him in waves. She usually looks forward to her time spent working with him; always appreciates his blunt, honest personality; but from the moment Keith had walked into her lab earlier that day and said, “So Shiro told me you guys met. So much for that Uber, huh?” Pidge chalked the rest of the day up to an early loss.

“He’s been asking about you, you know,” he says after some time. Pidge goes to shuffle through her tools for a smaller-sized precision flathead screwdriver. “He said he tried calling but he can’t get through. Did you give him the right number?”

“I didn’t give him _any_ number.”

“Oh. Want me to give it to him?”

Pidge spins around to face Keith, who is clearly not taking the hint. She’s going to have to spell it out for him. “If you want to do me a favor so badly, give him twenty dollars and tell him I said thank you for the ride so that he’ll leave me the hell alone,” she tells him. The look of perplexed realization—followed by mild offense—that dawns over Keith is impossible to miss.

“Hey, Shiro’s a nice guy,” he insists indignantly, as if Pidge’s blatant avoidance of speaking with this “Shiro” character personally concerns him and therefore is a direct affront to his own person. But it doesn’t, and it’s not, and Pidge has nothing else to say on the matter.

. . . . .

Lance makes a compelling argument two days later: “What the heck kind of person even types ‘lol’ in all caps, anyways?”

Hunk shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe he just never changed his autocorrect settings?”

“That’s even worse!” Lance squawks right next to Hunk’s ear, making him cringe. “Might as well do Pidge a favor and just delete his number right now. Pidge doesn’t need those kinds of people in her life, huh Pidge?”

“If you touch _anything_ on my phone, I’ll murder you both,” Pidge grumbles from the other end of her and Hunk’s shared work bench. Lance huffs in acknowledgement, slides back down into his chair and resumes tossing Hunk’s tape measurer from hand-to-hand. Hunk, now free from Lance’s hovering, continues to snoop through Pidge’s phone without shame.

For the past two minutes Hunk has been scrutinizing the yet-to-be-deleted texts from Shiro, aka STALKER CREEP, which Pidge had set as his contact name after Keith’s little surprise two days earlier. From one engineer to another, Pidge is quite impressed that Hunk was somehow able unlock her phone. From one friend to another, however, she wants to punch him in the face. Twice.

“So, when’s the date?” he asks, and Pidge thinks that three times sounds much more reasonable.

“There is no date,” Lance interrupts. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Lance is right. Now stop messing around with my stuff and get back to work,” Pidge says. “The faster we get this fuel control unit upgraded, the faster we can get Lance out of our lab.”

“Aw, what? Why not? We could totally do a double date with me and Shay!”

“We don’t even know who this guy is, he types like he just discovered the Internet, and yet you’re so quick to toss our precious Pidge at him just like that? Shame on you, Hunk!” Lance scolds. He reaches for his own phone. “Actually, what’s his name? I wanna look him up on Facebook, see what his deal is.”

“Shiro,” Hunk says.

“That’s his nickname,” Pidge says. “His actual name is Takashi Shirogane.”

“Whoa, hold the phone—Shiro? As in _the_ Takashi Shirogane? The legendary fighter pilot who got shot down outside of Bagram during a check flight and went MIA for almost an entire year?”

Pidge blinks. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

“Uh, yeah? Kind of!” Lance thumbs away furiously on his phone for a moment before thrusting it out toward Pidge. Pulled up is a six-year-old article from the New York Times, titled “Lost Airman Returns Home After 8 Months as POW,” with a shot of Shiro receiving an award during some sort of ceremony two years prior. “Like I said, the guy’s a total legend. He’s practically my hero!”

“Never heard of him,” Pidge says.

Hunk squints. “I think I’ve seen him before.”

“Yeah, in the news!”

“No, I mean, like, around here. Recently. Like, today recently.” Hunk pauses. “Oh, wait, actually, Pidge—”

“Hunk, I swear to god, unless you want every single one of your tools dipped in glitter glue and stuck to the ceiling, I suggest you come and help me with this stupid thing!” Pidge explodes, earning a low whistle from Lance. “And for the last time, stop touching my shit!”

Hunk gently sets down her phone and slowly pushes it away. “Okay, fine, point taken. But uh, seriously? You might wanna hear about this. It’s about Shiro.”

Pidge is even less inclined to hear Hunk out. “I don’t care.”

“But—”

“What did I just say?”

Hunk, visibly anxious, silently worries the inside of his cheek for only half a minute before trying again. “Pidge, I really think—”

Pidge carelessly drops her screwdriver back into her tool drawer, slams it shuts, and leaves.

. . . . .

That night before bed, Pidge finds herself back on Shiro’s profile when Facebook suggests him as somebody that she might know. There’s nothing to be gained from this—not when she’s already made up her mind to just try and forget _that_ ever happened—but her common sense is skewered by exhaustion, and that stupid, adorable white floof of his definitely doesn’t help. So she tells herself that she’ll only lurk a little, then proceeds to scroll through almost eight months’ worth of posts.

Granted, he really doesn’t post much—maybe once or twice every other week—and mostly they’re just shared news articles or inspirational quotes with the occasional outdated and not-so-funny meme thrown in for good measure. For all his good looks, Shiro seems quite… well, boring.

Even his photo albums are bare. For someone who’s supposedly been on Facebook for the past six years, Shiro hardly has any pictures that he’s uploaded of himself; a good majority of them are tagged, mostly by friends and who Pidge assumes are family, judging by their shared last name. Still, these alone showcase his transformation from teenage student body president and astronomy club founder, to mirthful college frat boy, to celebrated fighter pilot, to—now. Throughout them all, the sense of reassuring calmness that seems to surround him is a constant. So are his gentle, vibrant eyes, though in more recent photos they’ve grown a bit somber. Pidge can pinpoint exactly where it starts, too: somewhere in the year-and-a-half-long span between two of his own uploads. The first is a selfie, all smiles, standing in front of his assigned aircraft with an opened letter from the US Air Force Astronaut Program, captioned, “FINALLY!! All those flight hours lol… just one more tour!” The second is also a selfie, crooked half-grin and tired eyes, laid up in a hospital bed with that familiar white tuft and unevenly healed over scar, captioned, “Long time no see, huh?” Pidge feels sick when she remembers Lance’s words and finally makes the connection.

There’s one last album that catches Pidge’s attention when she’s just about to close out of his pictures for good; it’s labeled _photography,_ and, like his other albums, the uploads are far and few in between. He’s clearly not a professional—they’re all unedited shots of nature, most of them taken at night with what looks to be an average quality cell phone camera—but there’s a bare innocence to them that Pidge can’t help but find endearing in some odd sort of way, even if they _are_ a little unfocused. Her favorite is the most recent one, uploaded three days ago: a shot of the barely-visible Ursa Major constellation during late sunset, right above the tree line, with what she swears is the back of Keith’s head photobombing the very left-bottom corner. In a moment of pure stupidity, Pidge holds down the “like” button and leaves a laugh react.

“Shit!” Pidge scrambles to unlike the photo, praying to _someone_ that Shiro isn’t currently online and that her initial reaction would be rendered null and void if she’s quick enough. She’s not. Shiro sends her a friend request two minutes later.

Her sophomore engineering professor always used to say that consistency is key, so Pidge takes their advice for once and blocks Shiro on Facebook, too.

. . . . .

Pidge’s luck finally runs out that Saturday at noon, while finishing up her usual “weekend overtime” lunch order of a blueberry muffin and a small hot chocolate from the café down the road from ALTEA CORP.

“That’ll be $4.25.”

“Um…” Pidge furrows her brows as she searches her wallet, the budding feeling of panic blossoming in her gut as her Discover card goes unfounded. She can feel the barista’s expectant gaze as she digs frantically through the folds. “Where the hell is it…”

The barista sighs. “Ma’am, if you can’t pay—”

“I can pay, alright?” Pidge snaps, then dumps the contents of her wallet onto the counter. She sifts through them as someone in the line behind her groans, but it’s no use: her Discover card has apparently gone AWOL. She doesn’t notice the approaching footsteps nor the growing shadow looming overhead. “It was right behind my driver’s license...”

“Ma’am—”

“I said Just give me a second!”

“Katie?”

“Not right now, I’m—”

“I think you might be looking for this.”

The glint of a shiny blue Discover credit card being held out makes Pidge look up. It’s Shiro, of course, those deep gray eyes and that frustratingly handsome smile of his enough for her to lose track and wax poetic mentally for an entire second before it hits her that _shit, it’s Shiro._

“I found it while cleaning out my car the other day,” he explains, two steps ahead of Pidge who’s still trying to figure out how somebody could possibly be more attractive in person than they are online. “I’ve been meaning to return it. It’s actually what I was on my way to do now.”

“Wait, what?”

Shiro chuckles and palms the back of his neck. Oh, sheepish looks _good_ on him. “Keith may have told me that you sometimes come here on your lunch breaks, so I thought I’d grab a couple coffees and drop by ALTEA CORP.”

Pidge doesn’t know how to respond; doesn’t know if she should be angry, impressed, or maybe even a little creeped out that this handsome stranger has literally tried to track her down to—return her card. Right? The barista clears their throat before she can decide.

“Right, okay, here,” Pidge snaps and snatches her credit card from Shiro’s waiting hand and shoves it at the barista. She turns back to Shiro, gets distracted by that ridiculous white floof of his _again_ , and suddenly loses wind. “Uh. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“And thanks for taking me home the other night, too. You didn’t have to, but you did, and well, I really appreciate it. Also, for not kicking me out.” Pidge tries for a little humor but it’s lost on Shiro, who simply continues to look at her with an expression that she can’t decipher, making her face grow hot with embarrassment. “And—and sorry for ignoring you! Not that that’s what I was doing or anything. I mean, I—okay, look, maybe I kind of was, but I didn’t mean to. I just sort of freaked out, and—” She’s rambling as she spreads her wallet. “Just—here, let me at least pay you back—”

Shiro holds up a hand. “That isn’t necessary.”

“What?”

“I didn’t take you home because I was expecting you to pay me,” he says, then clears his throat before adding, “...although I did think you’d at least pick up the phone.”

Pidge pretends like she didn’t hear that. “The what do you want?”

Shiro doesn’t answer immediately, but when he does, the smirk on his lips ensures Pidge that he’s not upset in the slightest—which is a relief, she guesses—but rather that he thinks this whole situation is some sort of joke. “I heard you were trying to call for an Uber,” he says. “How’d that work out for you?”

Pidge groans. “Horrible.”

“Was riding with me really that bad?”

“No! You were awesome—and so was your car! I mean, heated back seats? Holy shit. But, um, see, it was my first time using Uber, and I uh… I downloaded the wrong app.”

“What’d you download?”

“...Tindr.”

“Oh. Well, I hope you haven’t swiped right on anyone yet.” He pauses. “Sorry, was that lame?”

“A little, but it’s fine. And to be honest, I accidentally swiped right on a _few_ people. But for what it’s worth, I’d swipe right on you on purpose.” Pidge cringes. “Okay, now _that_ was lame.”

Shiro laughs. “It was cute.”

“Cute?”

“Sorry.” Shiro clears his throat and stands himself up straight. It’s hard not to notice the rashy redness starting to creep up from the collar of his jacket, but it’s even harder to ignore the fact that Shiro extends his flesh and blood hand out to her rather than his mechanical one, which he keeps tight against his body. “I’m Shiro, by the way.”

“I’m Pidge. Er, Katie.” She wants to mention the arm so badly, but figures that conversation and her unavoidable subsequent fawning over it should wait for another time. “So how am I supposed to pay you back if you won’t let me actually _pay you?”_

“Well, you can start by unblocking me on Facebook.”

Pidge winces. “Was it that obvious?”

“It kind of was when you suddenly disappeared right after I sent you a friend request.” He laughs. “And it’d be nice if you actually responded to my texts once in a while. Maybe we could do something sometime. I know you’re probably busy because of your job—”

“I can make time,” Pidge blurts out. Her eagerness makes her cringe with embarrassment, but it earns a gleaming little half-smile from Shiro, so it’s bearable.

“Then how about now?”

“Huh?”

“How much time do you have left?”

“Oh.” Pidge looks at her phone. “About twenty-five minutes?”

“Then how about lunch?”

Pidge lifts a brow. “You’re asking for a lot, don’t you think?” she jokes, but still steps aside so that Shiro has full access to the menu board. “Unblock you on Facebook, answer your texts, buy you lunch…”

“Well I wasn’t insinuating that you _pay_ for me, but now that you mention it, carrying you up all those stairs into your apartment did work up quite an appetite, so I’ll have a turkey and swiss wrap, an oatmeal muffin, and a water.”

Pidge makes a face at his boring order but relays the information to the exhausted barista all the same, making Shiro laugh. Pidge wants to crack a joke, something about how he’s an expensive date, but she bites her tongue; she doesn’t want to make things awkward, and she definitely doesn’t want to delude herself into something that’s not. But later after they’re settled into a table by the window and tucking into their food, Shiro mentions in-between their conversation about constellations how next time _he’s_ paying, and Pidge can’t help but think that maybe next time _will_ be a date.

At least that’s what she’s hoping for as she quietly unblocks his number under the table.


End file.
